


What's in the memories, Slick?

by aspiringWatcher



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homestuck Stabdads, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringWatcher/pseuds/aspiringWatcher
Summary: What do you remember about your past, Spades Slick?
Relationships: Ms. Paint/Spades Slick
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	What's in the memories, Slick?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [botgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/botgal/gifts).



> A short Slick-centric touchstone ficlet which took me two weeks to conceptualize and an hour to actually write.

Your vision swims, as you recall. Sixteen. You were sixteen, back then.

It was raining. A simple break-in robbery, nothing more complicated. A bunch of green-suited guards weren’t supposed to be a problem. Four of you. Fourteen of them. You had the advantage of surprise - more than enough to sneak in, take the goods and leave.

Then you got ambushed by a couple of knife-wielding rogue gangsters and it all went to shit.

Your buddies ran, by your orders. You held the rogues off, even with a length of steel buried between in you. That was just enough. Barely enough, even.

As you laid bleeding out in the alleyway, you were wondering when did it all went to shit first.

You were out on the streets for two years after your parents kicked you out for literally no reason. Droog, the nice fellow he is, took you in. You never knew what did you do to earn all the shit that happened to you, but at you had him.

Your name is Spades Slick, and that was the day you almost died for the first time.

\---

You didn’t.

You woke up in a bed, your wounds bandaged. You survived. 

Someone took pity on you, again. You are luckier than you thought you are.

You hear a feminine voice asking you if you’re alright and you turn your head-

A young woman. An artist. You saw her a few times here and there, but never bothered to talk to her before.

She sits down and offers you a bowl of soup. You have no choice but to accept it.

After you’re done with the bowl, you thank her and left. A nice lass she is, isn’t she? And wasn’t it rude of you to leave just that?

The next time you meet her, you don’t ignore Miss Paint, as she introduced herself, and you help her with the graffito.

\---

Nineteen. You’re struggling, but you are, at least somewhat, back on your feet. Droog has just finished college - and you are working for him, running the small bar next to your old home.

Your parents don’t acknowledge you, and you don’t bother to.

Miss Paint’s graffiti patterns work in more colours, asides from the old yellow and purple: the vibrant reds and blacks, the tender grays and pinks, and the rare blue of the clear sky above. You keep helping her with them, and on her twentieth birthday you complete your own: a sprawling field of tulips.

That night, the Midnight Crew is back in action, and the plan that failed three years ago finally pays off.

\---

Twenty-six. Your marriage is today. You are missing an eye - lost a year ago to a rabid copper - and its black eyepatch compliments your jet black suit. 

Droog - your best man - in his amaranth suit, Deuce and Boxcars, in ashen tux and red overcoat, and an elderly couple - not her parents, but the only family she has - are the only guests who are present for the occasion. The words are said. Your wife, in a flowering yellow dress, embraces you.

You celebrate at your bar. Droog whispers to you that since now, the location is your own.

\---

Thirty. You are running a legal establishment. You are also running an illegal establishment, in the same location. Your wife is a celebrated artist. There is more black colour in her works, now.

You do not risk yourself anymore. You try to keep your transgressions to the paper. And with your skill with the documentation, it’s easier than it seems. You have learned that people expect compliance when it comes to paperwork. You have also learned to exploit that,

In two years, you now sustain two bars.

\---

Thirty-three. Your son takes his first step.

\---

Forty. Karkat’s gaggle of friends are out there, making a ruckus, as expected of children.

You have exactly zero trust when it comes to all but three of them, and you trust the two blue-eyed girls even less.

You recall your nemesis, walking next to one of them: a tall, cold aristocratic woman with icy blue gaze. Snowman, she called herself.

Tonight, you work with your wife on another piece. It’s a long and exhausting piece, but once you’re done, you recognize it: the very first piece you’ve ever drawn with her.

You tell her how much do you love her, and she reciprocates, and you kiss her like you’re young again and the years have not done anything to you at all.

\---

Forty-five.

Karkat’s struggling for breath as he screams through the phone.

He isn’t harmed. Maybe your luck rubbed off on him.

Droog doesn’t leave Aradia’s side for a week. He only departs once Sollux, stuttering, promises to keep an eye on her. Deuce drives him home. The next day, he’s back to hospital.

You bump into Snowman on your way into there. She is surprised to see you there, and hurries off on the first opportunity that she gets. You bump into her once again as you pass by Vriska’s room.

You see Karkat next to Tavros, helping a girl in a blindfold to balance herself with the help of a cane, and Sollux calling someone on a cellphone-

“Oh, hey, it’s you, mister Spades.” Sollux’s lisp is a bit more pronounced than you’ve expected. “I’ve called your friend, Aradia has finally woken up.”

You hail Karkat, who nods to you as you approach him.

“Hey.” The girl - who is, most likely, Terezi - waves her cane, hitting you on a shin. It seems to be made of foam - it barely hurts you.

“Dad, I’m-”

You tell Karkat that you’re proud of him, and ask Terezi to not to wave her cane around.

“I’m blind, mister Spades. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

\---

Fifty-two. Terezi raps on your new (twentieth? twenty-first?) establishment’s window.

Miss Paint - right back from an exhibition - lets her in, and she crashes on the chair with a grace you wouldn’t expect from someone unable to see.

“Slick,” she says, as if you were her classmate in the lawyer’s course, “I would like to ask you for a favour.”

You inquire what the favour is.

“Why, come on. I want your son’s hand.”

Your wife points out that you are not in control of what Karkat does, and-

“I know all that, ma’am. I wanted to tell you that I’m marrying your son, and I am not taking a no for an answer from either of you.”

You ask her why is she asking you for a favour.

“You see, my mother would most likely not be happy with this. Would you mind taking care of that?”

As you’re about to respond, someone crashes through the door. You recognize said someone as your old frenemy, piss-drunk and totally unable to sleuth out that you’re still mucking with the paperwork.

He mumbles something about his wife leaving him, and you pour him a glass of water. You listen to the rambles and wails, as Droog helps him to swallow it.

Terezi leaves in the interim, just as a tall police inspector drags the sleuth out.

\---

Fifty-three. You’re out on a vacation. Your semi-legal empire runs smoothly, with Karkat helping you to sustain its day side and Terezi working to bring the night side into the daylight.

Deuce sends you a photo of Sollux’s child, doodling his “grampa” in the snow. You get the same photo from Droog, with a tongue-in-cheek disappointment note.

Miss Paint laughs, and you kiss her on the cheek. She muses on how the view of the ocean reminds her of her family’s home.

To you, is blue reminds you of Snowman.

\---

Boxcars did take you to Snowman’s manor. You talked to her. You argued. You considered, for a moment, the opportunity to be seduced. You rejected it wholesale.

\---

Boxcars sends you another photo - he and his son, playing basketball. You write him a cheerful reply and turn off the phone, to enjoy the sun.

Your arm still hurts. Not that you haven’t got used to it yet.

And here you are, next to your beloved wife, languishing in the sun as days fly by.

\---

Sixty-two. You wholly retire to leave your now-entirely-legal enterprise to Karkat and his circle. Your wife’s eyesight suffers; she now wears a pair of spectacles, which she hastily adds to her portrait.

You dream of the days when you were a nobody with no life worth anything to speak of, and you relish in the waking hours where your life is fulfilled.

\---

Since today, you’re sixty-six, and you oversee the Felt Manor as it is bulldozed to the ground.

You thought you’d derive satisfaction from the act. You don’t. It’s a hollow victory.

This evening, you listen to Karkat’s speech on what the community should strive for - universal wellbeing. He is respected despite his demeanor; if you were a believer in the supernatural you’d describe his talent as such.

You gather in your house. Everyone is present.

You tell Karkat how proud are you of him, and he hugs you. Droog, and Boxcars, and Deuce join in, drowning your frame in arms.

You pull Miss Paint in your own embrace, and she smiles, beautiful as the day you’ve met her. As if she’s ever not been.

Terezi wheels in a cake - hilariously misshapen, as if she was the one to bake it. You blow out the candles, and bite in. 

You depart to sleep once the party is over. Somewhere below, Nepeta is singing a merry tune. 

You drift to unconsciousness, as memories boil to surface.

Are you still yourself? What has changed over the years, Slick? What did you lose and what did you gain?

Nothing worth regretting, you think as you cast the thoughts aside. You have already lived a long, fulfilling life, and even though the young you would see yourself as defanged-

-at least he’d see you being happy.


End file.
